My Other Obsession

There are few things out there that rival my writing for the number one spot on my obsession list. Reading. Watching movies. And knitting. That's right, knitting. Most people who see me mesmerized by a pair of needles clicking away have one of two responses:

1) Wow, I always wished I could do that; or
2) Gee, I thought only old ladies knitted.

Sometimes I get the, "how domesticated of you".

Now I'm not quite sure how knitting is considered domesticated. To me domesticated means something of the domestic arts, like doing the dishes, vacuuming, or scrubbing the disgusting ring that has formed around your bath tub before its thick enough to write your name in. Knitting for me is a creative outlet. It's taking a lump of yarn and making something out of it. Anything you want really. Socks, sweaters, hats. Heck, I've seen patterns for prosthetic breasts for crying out loud.

But my favorite thing to knit is blankets. There's something about a blanket. A nice, big, warm comfy afghan you can wrap around you to keep the chill out. It's comforting and great for people who take their napping seriously. But after knitting blankets for everyone in my family, sometimes a couple times over, I decided I needed to branch out.

That's when I stumbled up Project Linus. Hmm...a charity organization that depends solely on volunteers to make homemade blankets for sick or traumatized kids. I can do that. I checked out the website. They had chapters in Canada too. But none in Nova Scotia. Hmm...bummer. And strange, I thought, considering we have a leading children's hospital here in Halifax. Surely the IWK could use a plethora of blankets for its kids. So I started up the Nova Scotia Chapter.

And it seems every time I think maybe it's too much, that I have enough on my plate and I need to let something go, I see something like the piece on the NBC National News Archive and I remember why I do it. And I think, how can I not have enough time for that? I haven't come up with an answer that sounds good enough. So off I go, clicking away with the needles, dodging barbs from morons who think Grandma picked up her first set of knitting needles after she entered the old folks home.